"No he didn't," answered the tawny girl. "I'll go and do it."
And she flashed away upstairs like a panther.
"I suppose the twins introduced themselves," said Mr. George.
"No they didn't," said the other one.
"Only christened you Bow.—You'll be somebody or other's beau before very long, I'll warrant.—This is Grace, Grace Ellis, you know, where you're going to live. And her sister who's gone upstairs to blow your candle out, is Monica.—Can't be too careful of fire in these dry places.—Most folks say they can't tell 'em apart, but I call it nonsense."
"Ancien, beau, bon, cher, adjectives which precede," said the one called Monica, jerking herself into the room, after blowing out the candle.
"There's your father," said Mr. George. And Aunt Matilda fluttered into the hall, while the twins betrayed no interest at all. The tawny one stared at Jack and kept slinking about like a lean young panther to get a different view of him. For all the world as if she was going to pounce on him, like a cat on a bird. He, permanently flushed, kept his self-possession in a boyish and rather handsome, if stiff, manner.
Mr. Ellis was stout, clean-shaven, red-faced, and shabby and baggy, and good-natured in appearance.
"This is the young gentleman—Mr. Grant—called in Westralia Bow, so named by Miss Monica Ellis."
"By Miss Grace, if you please," snapped Monica.